This story by Elizabeth Auster was first published on March 20, 2005 in The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine

Suzanne Nielsen still remembers a strange conversation she had more than 40 years ago at her children's elementary school in Cincinnati. Nielsen was talking with a secretary when the principal suddenly popped out of his office and asked her if she knew a boy named Rob Portman. Nielsen knew him, but not well.
"Mark my words," the principal told her. "Someday he's going to be president of the United States."

Nielsen laughed and pointed out that Portman was only six or seven. The principal, undaunted, repeated his prediction and walked back into his office.

"And that was the end of the conversation," she says. But not the end of the story.

Several years ago, Nielsen ran into Portman, who by then was a U.S. congressman, and told him about the conversation. Portman got a kick out of it - so much so that when he learned The Plain Dealer was writing a story about him, he twice suggested the reporter track down Nielsen.

If there is a message here, it isn't necessarily that Rob Portman is planning to run for president anytime soon. It's that Portman, a former international trade lawyer whom President Bush nominated last week to become the next U.S. trade representative, is no longer shy about advertising that people see that potential in him.

This is a change for the lanky, graying, 49-year-old congressman from suburban Cincinnati who had quietly become one of the most influential Republicans in Congress by the time Bush asked him to join his cabinet last week.

Only four years ago, though he was being touted as a rising Republican star, Portman seemed uncomfortable talking about his ambitions. But as he began his seventh term in Congress this year, Portman opened up, admitting in a series of interviews that he sometimes feels restless in his job. He says he'd like to run for Senate, and he doesn't dismiss the possibility of running someday for the White House, a suggestion he says he hears from "a lot of people."

"The question, you know, is getting there," he says. "For me, that would mean probably running for Senate or governor and being successful ... which is a very uncertain proposition."

Such talk may seem a bit presumptuous for a politician who's barely known to voters outside his Southwest Ohio district. But the notion that Portman might have big ambitions, beyond even the cabinet-level post that he has just been tapped for, is hardly absurd to people who follow politics. How else to explain the kooky rumor that swept Ohio political circles last fall?

It went like this: Governor Bob Taft would appoint Portman lieutenant governor, then resign to accept some appointment by President Bush. That would leave Portman as governor, making him the front-runner in the 2006 governor's race and, if he were elected governor, a contender for the presidency.

Portman, whose backers in Cincinnati include President Bush's leading fund-raisers, dismissed the rumor - eventually. So did Taft. That it lingered awhile says something - and not only that certain Ohio Republicans are desperate to avoid a messy primary for governor in 2006.

It's a gauge of how high Portman's stock has climbed in Republican political circles.

In Washington, where Portman's name is well known, visitors to his congressional office quickly glimpse his connections. In the reception area are framed photos of Portman with President Bush, Vice President Cheney and former Presidents Bush, Clinton and Ford.

His inner office reveals more intimate shots: Portman jogging in Paris with the first President Bush, and another of both men cracking up at a joke. There is one of him fishing with Cheney in Wyoming, and another with him in jeans on the Cheneys' ranch.

Along another wall hang multiple photos of White House ceremonies where bills Portman sponsored were signed into law. Among them: An overhaul of the Internal Revenue Service, a reform of pension law, the creation of an underground railroad museum in Cincinnati and an anti-drug program.

The pictures make two points that invariably come up when people explain Portman's standing in Washington. First, he has unusually close ties to the Bush crowd. Second, he has a knack for turning his ideas into law. Both points are central to understanding how Portman secured a perch in Congress four years ago that quickly became the envy of many of his peers. Without Portman ever having to campaign for a top leadership job, House Speaker Dennis Hastert ushered him into the GOP inner circle by anointing him chairman of the House Republican leadership.

As part of the job, Portman runs meetings of GOP leaders, monitors the mood of rank-and-file Republicans on major bills and serves as liaison between House Republican leaders and the White House. The liaison role has been a natural for Portman because he worked in the White House under the first President Bush with many of the top aides who work there now for Bush's son. Portman began his White House tenure as an associate counsel, then became director of the legislative affairs office, which handles relations with Congress.

By the time Portman left the first Bush White House in 1991, "he was revered," says Joshua Bolten, who replaced Portman and is budget director for the current President Bush.

One sign of Portman's standing was that he was offered the post of staff secretary to the president, one of the most coveted jobs in the West Wing.

"There's not a piece of paper that goes to or from the president that doesn't go through the hands of the staff secretary," says White House chief of staff Andy Card, who also worked for the elder Bush.

Portman, who calls his White House stint his best job ever, declined the promotion for several reasons: His mother in Cincinnati was ill with cancer; he had a young son he rarely saw because of his long work hours; and he needed to return home if he wanted to build a political base so he could run for office.

Since then, there have been plenty of signs of Portman's standing with the Bushes. When he ran for Congress in 1993, Portman faced a bitter primary, with one rival lampooning him as "Prince Rob" because of his support from downtown corporate interests and his earlier work as a lawyer for a major Washington lobbying firm. Former first lady Barbara Bush came to the rescue, cutting a radio ad and signing a fund-raising letter for him.

In 2000, Portman played Al Gore in then-Governor Bush's practice sessions for the final presidential debate and played Joe Lieberman in practice sessions with Dick Cheney for the vice-presidential debate. Last year, Portman spent parts of 10 weekends playing John Edwards as Cheney prepared for the vice-presidential debate in Cleveland.

"He did a superb job. ... There wasn't anything that I heard from Edwards that I hadn't already heard from Rob. And he was in many respects tougher," Cheney says. "He gets under your skin, which is exactly what he's supposed to do. ... You sit down and it's your good friend Rob across the table and in a matter of minutes, you know, you want to throttle the guy."

Cheney says he is "a huge fan" of Portman though he hasn't quite forgiven him for catching a bigger trout when the two men went fishing the day before the vice-presidential debate on the Snake River in Wyoming.

"Rob is one of those individuals who can do virtually anything he puts his mind to," says Cheney. "He's been enormously helpful to me and maybe I'll have a chance to return the favor down the road."

Card, in an interview before Portman's nomination last week, says he has little doubt Portman will rise further in politics.

"I do not see him at the apex of his career," says Card. "I think there's still plenty of mountain ahead for him to climb and he's going to keep climbing."

For Portman to rise higher in Ohio politics, he would have to become better known. Lately, he seems to be trying.

One recent Friday, he visited Cleveland's University Hospitals in the morning, stopped by two Northeast Ohio newspapers in the afternoon and gave a speech at a GOP dinner near Youngstown. Last weekend, he was the main speaker at a GOP dinner in Lorain County.

If Portman ventures out more across Ohio in his new job (which requires confirmation by the U.S. Senate), audiences are likely to find a politician who doesn't fit the stereotype of a back-slapping, cigar-chomping party insider who lives and breathes backroom politics.

A health-conscious athlete and outdoorsman, Portman is better known for spending his spare evening hours in Washington working out in the House gym and practicing "rolls" on his kayak in the House pool than he is for hobnobbing at parties.

By day, he has been more famous for pestering colleagues to support the latest version of some pension reform bill he has co-written with Maryland Democratic Representative Ben Cardin - a frequent collaborator of his - than for hitting the golf course.

"He's not one of the boys," says one Republican House colleague.

"He's a real policy wonk at heart," says Bolten.

When he's not working, Portman is likely to be bike-riding or canoeing, reading a biography or exploring his roots. Portman, whose family owns the historic Golden Lamb Inn in Lebanon, which is decorated with Shaker antiques, recently co-wrote a book on Union Village, a former Shaker village in Ohio.

Middle-aged fans of Portman, like Card, use phrases such as "good family man" and "straight arrow" to describe him. Older fans often say he reminds them of their sons.

Portman, whose wife and children live in the upscale Cincinnati suburb of Terrace Park, has talked often over the years about his efforts to balance career and family. One reason he hasn't sought a top elected House leadership spot, he says, is that he fears such a job would force him to spend most weekends flying around the country to campaign for other GOP lawmakers. If confirmed for his new position, he plans to fly home every weekend possible.

As a member of the House of Representatives, he makes political appearances on weekends in Ohio but still finds time to join his children - who are 14, 13 and 10 - at basketball games and confirmation classes. On one recent weekend when his wife was sick, he cooked his favorite three-cheese macaroni on Friday night and filled in for her as assistant coach of their daughter's basketball team on Saturday morning.

Even so, Portman's life as a congressman has been so jammed that he and his wife have hour-long meetings every few weeks to coordinate their schedules and arrange occasional dates. Their last date was in late February, when they saw the movie Million Dollar Baby. Their previous one in late December fizzled, he says, when he and his wife walked into a small restaurant in Lucasville and immediately were spotted by local farm bureau officials who recognized him and wanted to chat.

Portman represents one of the most conservative metropolitan areas in America, but he is hardly a firebrand in the mold of well-known Republicans like House Majority Leader Tom DeLay and former Speaker Newt Gingrich. His brand of conservatism has a more collegial, public-service-oriented flavor reminiscent of the first President Bush, whom Portman supported over Ronald Reagan in the 1980 GOP presidential primary.

In 2004, seven of Ohio's other 11 House Republicans had more conservative voting records than his, according to an analysis by National Journal.

People who have worked with Portman say that he can be dogged, sometimes to the point of being irritating, when he's pushing issues he cares about, but he doesn't come across as hot-tempered or strongly ideological.

"Extremes are not comfortable for him," says former Republican Senator Alan Simpson of Wyoming, who has known Portman since the late Seventies. "He has this equanimity, a sense of balance I guess I would call it."

Cleveland Democratic Representative Stephanie Tubbs Jones, who opposed him in a testy House debate in January over certifying Ohio's electoral-college votes, says Portman doesn't take disagreements personally. "He, as compared to other Republicans, is pleasant and good to work with."

Norman Ornstein, a congressional scholar at the American Enterprise Institute, says Portman "is as well regarded as any member of Congress, on both sides," in part because he's pragmatic and keeps his word.

"It's been interesting," says Ornstein. "Here you have a guy who is seen as almost the president's closest friend in the House, but who also doesn't raise the hackles of Democrats."

During a recent swing around southwest Ohio, Portman pleases Republican audiences with a stout defense of President Bush's agenda while appearing open-minded and approachable in less political settings.

At a GOP dinner in rural Clinton County just outside his district, Portman charms the party faithful with a rousing tribute to Bush's performance in the 2004 campaign and delivers more than a few digs at John Kerry. At one point he jokes that he will have to watch his words because a reporter from Cleveland is present.

"I don't want to say something that will get quoted up there in Cleveland that might not be complimentary to Mr. Kerry. That might get me in trouble. Wouldn't that be terrible," he jokes as the crowd howls.

Portman lampoons Kerry as the candidate of the status quo while saluting Bush as a gutsy "reform candidate" willing to tackle tough issues such as tax reform and Social Security.

"That, to me, is exciting," he says. "While we live in the greatest country in the world, we need to constantly be tweaking our programs, bringing them up to speed."

Before less-partisan audiences, Portman is lower-key - often coming across not like a hard-charging pol but an earnest boy-next-door type who minds his manners, does his homework and eats his vegetables.

At an early morning meeting of an anti-drug coalition he founded in Cincinnati, Portman - who usually works in shirt sleeves - quickly removes his blue blazer and offers the group an update on what's been happening in Congress on bills that could affect its efforts.

He leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he talks quietly but quickly, trying to cram numerous facts and figures into a presentation that won't take too long. In the nondescript conference room, where the fluorescent lighting emits a low, steady hum, he has the manner of a schoolboy eager to show he's done a thorough report.

When a latecomer arrives and can't find a seat, Portman rushes to find a chair.

In the hallway outside the meeting, Reverend Peterson Mingo, a Baptist minister who runs various youth programs to steer neighborhood kids from drugs, sings Portman's praises. Mingo notes that his church is in Evanston, an inner-city neighborhood outside Portman's district.

"There's nothing I can do for him. But he's been a great help," says Mingo, pointing out that Portman flew home last year to attend a dinner honoring his church's 13th anniversary. "He showed up, he ate, he stayed for the entire evening. ... He's the only Republican that comes out."

At Portman's next stop, a meeting with a state economic official assigned to southwest Ohio, Portman wears a thoughtful expression as the official recites a list of worries he hears from businesses in the region. Portman responds methodically, highlighting various bills in Congress that might help employers.

Then it's on to the newly built National Underground Railroad Freedom Center in downtown Cincinnati. Portman, whose maternal ancestors sheltered slaves on a farm in southern Ohio, won federal support to build the center after his mother urged him in 1993 to take up the cause in Congress.

"My mom was very involved with the group that came up with this idea," he says as he walks into the center. "She said, 'Robbie, you will do this.' And then a year later she died."

Inside the center, Portman chats with its director about ways to lure political celebrities like Colin Powell to become involved in projects at the center.

At his next stop, a Greater Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce lunch, Portman delivers yet another update on what's happening in Congress. But first he salutes a tall, thin, white-haired man in the audience - his 82-year-old father, Bill Portman, the founder of Portman Equipment Company, which began as a small forklift distributorship in 1960 and grew to more than 300 employees before being bought recently by a Dutch company.

Portman's tribute has the ring of an oft-told story. He tells how his dad, a former salesman, mortgaged the family home and borrowed money from anyone he could to start his business.

"It was a big risk, but thank goodness people still want to do that," Portman tells the group as they finish their grilled chicken. "That's what sets America apart, that we have this risk-taking spirit. ... When people ask me what do I focus on in Congress, and why did I run for office, there are lots of reasons but none more important than to try and keep the entrepreneurial spirit of America alive and strong."

Portman, a member of the powerful House Ways and Means Committee - which handles taxes, trade, health care and Social Security - has focused heavily on economic issues in Congress. And though his speech is somewhat dry, he keeps the attention of most of the business types in the room.

Surprisingly, at one point he tells his audience that he doesn't favor cutting Social Security benefits even though President Bush has suggested they will need some adjustments. Then he says he's not even sure Bush's attempt to overhaul Social Security will succeed.

"We're going to go at that as hard as we can. Whether it gets done or not, I don't know," he says. "It's going to be very controversial."

When someone in the audience asks whether government health-care programs aren't in more trouble than Social Security, Portman answers candidly.

"They're probably more troublesome in a way," he says. But he predicts that Congress won't do much on health care this year because of the disappointing reaction Republicans have gotten to the recent law adding prescription drug coverage to Medicare.

"We got kind of burned on Medicare," he says. "I think, frankly - I wish I could say this was off the record - I think this is an issue that members aren't going to want to touch for a while."

Portman has taken pains in Congress to be viewed as a team player who rarely challenges Republican higher-ups publicly. Yet he has a way of disarming Democrats with a style that seems less partisan than they expect.

At his next event, a talk arranged by a Jewish social-services agency at an apartment complex in Cincinnati where most residents are elderly, he praises Bush for proposing changes to Social Security and warns that the program will be "a total train wreck" unless it's shored up. But again he slips in an opinion that seems to differ from Bush's.

"We need to come up with a way other than cutting benefits, which I don't think we should do, because here in Ohio, it's about 950 bucks a month," he says, referring to the average retiree's check. "That's tough to live on."

(In an interview weeks later, Portman says he didn't mean to rule out supporting changes that could be interpreted as benefit cuts - such as increasing the retirement age or using a less-generous formula to calculate benefits for future retirees.)

Asked by a woman in the audience about the situation in Iraq, Portman says things are going better than the media portray but concedes the United States made a mistake by disbanding the Iraqi Army. "We should've kept some of that army together. Now we're having to recreate it," he says.

When 63-year-old Hope Bard says she fears signing up for the new Medicare prescription-drug coverage, he expresses sympathy and asks her to wait and analyze how it would affect her before she judges it.

After the session, Bard says she is "very impressed" with Portman even though she is a registered Democrat and worries about his approach to Social Security.

"He's very honest and approachable and open," says Bard. "He admitted he had doubts about certain things. ... He wasn't sure everything is being done the right way."

Bard is hardly the only Democrat with kind words for Portman.

Lisa Crawford, an environmental activist, says she became a Portman fan when he began working after he took office with neighbors pushing for cleanup of radioactive waste from the federal Fernald plant in Hamilton County, which once processed uranium for nuclear weapons. The site was in Portman's district until a few years ago.

"This was a guy who would be on vacation and would call me and check in and make sure everything was OK. His office was always available," says Crawford, president of Fernald Residents for Environmental Safety and Health.

Crawford, a self-described "tried and true Democrat," says she voted for Portman as her "token Republican."

"I just can't stress enough that he's a nice fellow, just a really good guy," she says.

During 15-hour days traveling around his district, which stretches from downtown Cincinnati and its wealthy eastern suburbs across several rural counties to Portsmouth, Portman encounters a dizzying array of worries from people along the way.

On a day when the Ohio and Scioto rivers are well above flood levels, he makes an unscheduled stop by the Scioto River, nearly two hours east of Cincinnati, and talks to a Pike County emergency management official about what it would take to qualify for government money to clean up flood damage.

The official has other things on his mind, too, including a change in the way Washington is doling out homeland-security money. The official complains that big cities are receiving more at the expense of areas like Pike County, even though a uranium-enrichment facility in Piketon could be a target for terrorists.

During a visit later to the uranium-enrichment site, Portman rides around in a van on a bumpy dirt road that local residents want the government to pave to replace one closed for security reasons after 9/11. Portman listens attentively as the technical obstacles to building the road are explained to him.

At one stop in the tiny town of Jasper, he approaches an 89-year-old man wearing a denim cap who happens to be walking by and chats with him about the quality of the local soil.

Portman, an anthropology major in college, has an inquisitive streak going way back, his relatives say. As a boy, Portman's father says, he always "had lots of questions for people."

"He loves getting to the core of things," says his sister, Ginna Portman Amis, a social worker in Minneapolis. "He likes seeing where things start and where they go."

Portman traces his early interest in government partly to an attraction to the mystique of John Kennedy, who died when Portman was almost eight. He also recalls a more prosaic moment that gave him one of his first clues about what he wanted to do when he grew up.

"It's this kind of bizarre recollection," he says, as he rides in the back seat of a car driven by an aide. "I remember very distinctly driving with my mother in a car. I would guess I was 10 or 11 years old or something like that. And we're running over potholes on this road that needed repair. ... I just remember so distinctly thinking that someday I want to have something to say about that road. I don't just want to be a passenger on the road. I want to be someone who helps decide whether these potholes get filled."

Portman is looking out the window with a faraway gaze as he tells the story. Asked how his mother reacted, he says he can't remember, but he's sure it was encouraging. That wouldn't surprise anyone who knew Portman's mother, a short, outgoing woman who by all accounts had a profound influence on him.

Portman's mother was a Republican, he says, but an independent-thinking one who loved becoming involved in local causes and routinely had newcomers over to the family home in Indian Hill, a wealthy suburb of Cincinnati. She made a point of subscribing to a range of publications, including the liberal Village Voice, so her children would be exposed to diverse views.

Joseph Hagin, a deputy White House chief of staff who grew up with Portman in Cincinnati, recalls the Portman house being a hub of activity for kids as well as adults.

"Everybody hung out over at the Portmans'," says Hagin, who still recalls a night that a group of Portman's friends in their mid-teens got in trouble for having a water fight in the kitchen with garden hoses.

Jay Espy, a high-school friend of Portman's who is president of a land conservation organization in Maine, remembers both of Portman's parents being unusually active in the community.

"His mother was on every board and she didn't do it for the sake of being on boards, she did it to work," says Espy, a registered Democrat. "Their father's the same way."

Portman's sister recalls that both parents instilled "a sense of giving back" in their children. "Trying to make the world a better place was always a priority," she says.

Portman, who worked in his early twenties as a cowboy on a Texas ranch where he says he was "the only gringo" among a group of Mexican workers, seems to have picked up his parents' values.

While living in Washington early in his career, he taught English as a Second Language for several years to Hispanic immigrants at a Catholic church. More recently, he has been tutoring a Mexican teenager on Monday mornings at a high school in Cincinnati.

Portman, who lists The Dixie Chicks and Bob Dylan among his favorite musicians, has been close over the years to many people who don't share his conservative political views.

"Our politics are definitely different," says his sister, who is more liberal. "I try not to discuss it. ... We don't let politics get between us in our family."

Portman's sister notes that she and her brothers had early models for tolerating political disagreements: "My mother and father didn't always agree politically and that was always good for us to see, that they could disagree and yet still listen to each other."

In his private life, some of Portman's best friends have been Democrats. He was best man, for example, at the wedding of Dan Reicher, a longtime environmentalist who was assistant secretary for energy in the Clinton administration and an adviser to Kerry's presidential campaign on energy issues.

Reicher and Portman have taken numerous kayaking trips - including one in China and another during their college years at Dartmouth, when they were part of a small group believed to be the first ever to kayak the entire 2,000-mile Rio Grande.

Portman's wife, Jane, who works part time as a consultant at a marketing think tank in Cincinnati, is a former Democrat. While she and Portman were dating, she worked for then-Representative Tom Daschle, who later became the Senate Democratic leader and a target of frequent GOP attacks.

Tall, athletic, dark-haired and green-eyed like her husband, 44-year-old Jane Portman says she didn't find it too hard to switch parties when she married because she had grown up in North Carolina, where most Democrats were moderate to conservative.

"It wasn't that much territory to leap," she says, sitting on a blue sofa in her large, airy living room. "We struck a couple of deals. I said, 'Well, I'll take your name, but we're going to give my maiden name as a middle name to all the children.' ...

"And I said, 'I'll cross over and call myself a Republican, but you've got to come on board as a Methodist' [Portman was a Presbyterian]. ... We felt that we wanted to be on the same team and that was a way to do it. We didn't feel that we were sacrificing huge parts of who we were."

During the interview, she declines to discuss her views on issues or to say if she and her husband disagree politically.

"If we do, we sort of keep it to ourselves," she says. "There are reasons I never chose to run for office. ... It's because I prefer keeping some of my thoughts to myself."

Back in his Washington office last month, Portman, who usually sits back calmly in his chair, suddenly leans forward when he's told that one of his colleagues recently questioned how far he'll go in politics because he seems "risk-averse."

The description appears to rankle Portman, who has taken more than a few physical risks over the years - from ducking bullets whizzing over his head while kayaking on the Rio Grande, to defying Chinese officials who refused him permission to kayak on the Yangtze River.

"I probably am a little risk-averse compared to some members [of Congress]," he concedes, "but I think a lot of that is a deliberate decision on my part that some things are worth it for my career and some things aren't."

Portman, who maintained as recently as last month that he couldn't imagine taking a job with the Bush administration because "it just doesn't work for my family," said last week that he changed his mind and agreed to become the nation's chief trade negotiator for several reasons. The main one, he said, was that he came to realize that after 12 years in Congress - the longest he's stayed in any job - he was "ready for a change."

"Life is short," he said, adding that he realized the trade job "is right down my alley."

The new post, which would make him responsible for negotiating trade agreements with other nations and reducing barriers to the sale of U.S. goods abroad, is probably "the best fit" for him, he said, of any cabinet-level job because of his background as a trade lawyer.

Portman has often said in the past that his favorite part of his job in Congress is not the politics but the nuts and bolts of changing government policies.

Asked if the increasing partisanship in Congress recently was a factor in his decision, he said: "The polarization does get to me. ... It was an element, yes."

Another factor, he said, was that Bush approached him personally. "It's just very hard to say no to the president," he said.

Portman also noted that Ohio's two Senate seats could be occupied with Republicans for years to come. Senator George Voinovich's term doesn't end until 2010. And Senator Mike DeWine has said he's running for another six-year term next year.

Portman's path to the governorship also has been blocked. Three well-known statewide officials are ahead of him in the line to run for governor - Secretary of State Ken Blackwell, State Auditor Betty Montgomery and Attorney General Jim Petro.

"He needs a break," said Curt Steiner, a former GOP consultant who managed Portman's first congressional campaign. "In order to take it to the next level there needs to be an opening and right now there isn't. ... But he's patient. He's young."

Portman said last week that he sees no reason why joining the Bush administration should prevent him from seeking higher office - in the Senate, or the White House.

"I don't think it hurts," he said.

If he does run for higher office, Portman - who has more than $2 million in his campaign kitty - is expected to have no problem raising money through his Cincinnati and Washington connections. But he could face other challenges.

One possible line of attack from Republican rivals is that his conservative credentials could be stronger. Though Portman opposes abortion, for example, he favors exceptions for rape, incest and the life of the mother. He also has worked closely with Democrats not only on pension bills, but also on laws to protect tropical rain forests and to create anti-drug programs emphasizing prevention rather than punishment.

Asked if he ever used illegal drugs, Portman says after a long pause that he's never been asked the question before, but that he did use marijuana while he was in school. He says he never bought or sold it, and didn't use it often.

"This was an era when almost everybody did it," he says. "It's something I regret."

In a general election, Democrats probably would accuse Portman of being too conservative. Representative Ted Strickland, a Lisbon Democrat whose district adjoins Portman's, says any Democrat opposing Portman would point out the difference between his moderate demeanor and his voting record.

"He's gracious, he's not a flame-thrower," says Strickland. "On the other hand, if you look at his record, you'll find that it's certainly right of center."

Portman also could be portrayed by Democrats as too much of a GOP loyalist. Though he publicly has opposed one proposal by President Bush, to create a new form of tax-sheltered savings account, Portman concedes that such defiance is rare for him.

Whatever obstacles Portman might face if he seeks higher office, people who know him say they have no doubt he'd be a tough competitor. Friends recall ferocious athletic contests during visits to the Portman home. "These were not polite matches," says Reicher. "The Portman boys were always getting themselves hurt. It was sometimes terrifying to be around them."

Bolten, who was at the governor's mansion in Texas when Portman helped prepare Bush for the final 2000 debate against Gore, remembers Portman surprising everyone when he walked from his stool to where Bush was standing "and invaded the governor's space."

"We all thought that was pretty funny and obnoxious," says Bolten. "We laughed and said there was no way that Vice President Gore would do something like that. And Rob said, 'I'll bet he will.' And in fact he did."

Portman's predecessor in Congress, former Representative Bill Gradison, recalls how Portman repeatedly pressed for his endorsement in the 1993 primary. When he relented, Gradison says, Portman was instantly ready with a draft letter for him to sign.

Portman hasn't lost a race since he failed in his first try to become secretary-treasurer of his ninth-grade class, and he's not the sort to leap into a contest without preparing. Long before he ran for Congress, he says, he put together a notebook exploring the pros and cons of such a race and mapping out how he'd tackle it. The day Gradison announced he was quitting, Portman dusted off the book and immediately went to work.

Asked recently if he has put together any similar notebooks lately, Portman smiles and says no.

Then he quickly adds: "I've thought about it."

Elizabeth Auster is a columnist and senior writer in The Plain Dealer's Washington Bureau. She has no plans to run for political office in Ohio or anywhere else. She may be reached at 216-999-4212 or through magmail@plaind.com.

PHOTO CAPTIONS:
Rob Portman, a descendant of Quaker abolitionists, stands in front of a fabric mural at the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati in January. Portman's mother, Joan, was co-chair of a local chapter of an interfaith group that came up with the idea for the center. After his mother died, Portman tracked down a farm in Ohio where her great-grandparents once sheltered runaway slaves.

Portman (right) leaves a meeting in Baghdad last month with Ibrahim al-Jaafari (center), leading candidate to become Iraq's prime minister, and U.S. Representative Bob Inglis, a South Carolina Republican. The trip to Iraq is one of about 40 overseas journeys Portman has taken for work and play. He's been to Europe more than 20 times and Latin America more than 10 times.

The walls in Portman's office show his connections to Washington power players. In one of those pictures (above), Portman and Dick Cheney fish on the Snake River in Wyoming, south of Jackson Hole. Portman (left) jogs in Paris with then-Vice President George H. W. Bush (at right). While working as a lawyer in the Eighties, Portman was permitted to take time off to plan vice-presidential trips for Bush. Doing such "advance work" is a common way of getting started in politics.

Portman sits at President George W. Bush's left at a meeting in the White House Cabinet Room in 2001. Joshua Bolten, now Bush's budget director and then his deputy chief of staff for policy, sits behind Portman to the right. Bolten says White House officials rely on Portman's advice because he has both a strong grasp of the details of government policies and "a very nice touch for politics."

Portman mingles with the audience after a talk at an apartment complex in Cincinnati arranged by the Jewish Family Service in January. One woman who lives in the complex, which has many elderly residents, tells him she expects him to be president someday. The woman, Lois Fowles, explains why: "He just has a good wholesome way of thinking. ... He's clean-cut. It reminds me of my sons because that's the way they are."

Portman's district includes not only Cincinnati's ritzy eastern suburbs but also poorer areas such as Pike and Scioto counties. Here, he talks with Russell Conley, who lives near a uranium-enrichment plant in Piketon, about what the government can do to replace a nearby road, closed for security reasons after the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

Both Portman and his wife, Jane, were president of their high school class. Both worked in the White House (she as a summer intern in the Carter administration) and on Capitol Hill. Their first date, at a "funky little vegetarian restaurant," was a little "off-kilter," she says. She thought he talked too much. He thought she was too quiet. But they stayed in touch. For their honeymoon, in 1986, they drove west in her Honda Accord to the Grand Canyon, Mexico and Texas.

Last year, Portman, who attended the exclusive Cincinnati Country Day High School, began tutoring 17-year-old Ruani Martinez in English. Ruani attends Withrow High School, where students speak more than 70 languages and come from 49 countries. He moved to Cincinnati a few years ago from a small town in Mexico. Portman also occasionally takes Ruani to Cincinnati Reds baseball games.

Portman stands beside President Bush last Thursday as Bush announces his nomination to be the next U.S. Trade Representative. If confirmed by the Senate, Portman would be responsible for negotiating trade deals with other countries and enforcing rules that help U.S. companies sell their goods abroad. "As an Ohioan, Rob knows firsthand that millions of American jobs depend on exports," Bush said.

Follow Us

cleveland.com is powered by Plain Dealer Publishing Co. and Northeast Ohio Media Group. All rights reserved (About Us).The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of Northeast Ohio Media Group LLC.